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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669659">Coffee in the Morning, Whiskey for the Evening</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo'>GwiYeoWeo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Devil May Cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>All around good feels, Domestic Fluff, Incest, M/M, Slice of Life, a day in the life of V pretty much, and soft bois, nice little smooches, with a pinch of spice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:36:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>They always make amends afterward, no real bad blood in between them anyway, not anymore. Kiss and make up and all. Or fuck and make up. Or kiss and fuck and make up. Not always necessarily in that order. It just might be a reason for the frequency of their fights. </p>
  <p>And while V doesn't particularly mind playing spectator and sometimes referee for their dicking contests, he'd rather prefer to end the night on a peaceful note for once. It was such a good morning and day; a shame to not keep the domestic rhythm going. <br/></p>
</blockquote>Black coffee and strong whiskey never agree with V, but he finds them acceptable enough under particular circumstances -- when he steals the taste right from their lips.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dante/V/Vergil (Devil May Cry)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Coffee in the Morning, Whiskey for the Evening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>yeaaaaaa, still need more of this ot3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>V wakes up, his survival instincts kicking in as a response to the near crushing weight on his chest, but despite the lethargy and morning fog, he knows it's a simple matter of wrangling himself out from underneath this overgrown pile of meat and bones. He blinks his eyes open, craning his neck ever so slightly, to see Dante sprawled across in lieu of the blanket he had fallen asleep under last night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He brings his hand and lightly scratches Dante's scalp, somewhat greasy but soft, where his head is pillowed on V's chest. There's an arm and a leg tossed over his own, half of Dante's torso on top of him, and V suspects that's where most of the weight is coming from. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know you're awake," he says, voice groggy and rough from sleep. “You’re heavy, Dante.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dante’s breathing is lacking that slow creeping cadence and quiet snoring, yet he insists on playing dead it seems, not even bothering to move a single centimeter. V’s probably not helping the situation with the hair petting. Still, he finds it difficult to stop despite his complaint; it’s like having a giant dog sleeping on him. Warm and endearingly domestic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V indulges both himself and Dante, switching between gentle scratches and light strokes along Dante’s neck, ears, and hair, while he turns his head to the side and looks at the bedside clock. His brows pull together at the time, slightly disappointed in himself for waking up so late — late by his standards, far too early for Dante’s. He’s been allowing too many of Dante’s bad influences to worm their way into him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a voice in his head, a voice that sounds suspiciously like a certain lazy bedbug of a half-demon, that tells him he needs to relax, to kick back and smell the sunshine and sleep the day away. He’s not running on borrowed time anymore, and there’s no atonement to shed blood for, no building mountain of guilt and lies he needs to cover up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And that’s precisely why he can’t idle in bed all day, despite how temping it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dante somehow senses the exact moment V makes his decision and goes full-on octopus, tangling their legs together and wrapping his arms around V’s entire upper body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V regards him with a baleful look, and Dante reciprocates with a dumb happy grin, finally opening his eyes from his pretend sleep, and tries to appease him with a kiss. V’s quick to shoot up a hand, as little room as there is considering Dante’s hold on him, and smacks it right on Dante’s face before their lips can meet. V doesn’t mind a little morning romance, but he’s sure Dante didn’t brush his teeth after eating that garlic-crusted pizza last night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t stop Dante, though, who proceeds to smother a handful of kisses against V’s palm. The stubble is ticklish and just a bit rough against his skin, a sensation he can’t say is awful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a huff and a few unrealistic threats they both know V has no intention of carrying out, Dante finally lets him go. V doesn’t bother changing out of his sleeping clothes, just picks up a robe to wrap himself in, and meets Dante at the bedside one last time before he goes to wash up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon, sweetpea, be a bad boy for once and break your rules.” Dante tries one last time to convince him to stay in bed for another couple hours, a weak attempt at seduction playing in his tone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V only quirks his lips in an indulgent smile and leans down to peck a kiss on his temple. “Foolishness, Dante.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dante is corrupting you, I see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vergil sneers from behind the rim of his mug, a tacky white ceramic thing that reads “World’s Okayest Dad” gifted from Nero last month. It’s strangely intimate to see Vergil dressed down as he is, wearing a simple dark henley reminiscent of Dante’s own, only clean-pressed and clear of stains, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. (Times certainly have changed, haven’t they?) He leans back into the countertops, arms crossed when he puts his cup down behind him. Of course, leave it to him to voice V’s earlier thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An exaggeration, I think.” V shoots back, quirking his eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vergil only stares, stoic and cynical, and his reply is in the silence and gaze that stretches between them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V realizes, with abrupt clarity, how he himself must look. He didn't put much effort into grooming himself after brushing his teeth and washing his face, only glancing in the mirror once or twice with little thought. He didn't even run a comb through his hair, which must be a messy, strewn-about sight. Adding in walking about barefoot and with a large albeit comfortable night robe, V probably looks like he just rolled out of bed. Which, really isn't a lie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Begrudgingly, V admits Vergil holds some truth about Dante's </span>
  <em>
    <span>corrupting </span>
  </em>
  <span>influence. "Well, I suppose he's had a hand in corrupting both of us."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Both of us?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V steps around, feet quiet and soft against the cold tiles, and he fights back a shiver as he tightens the robe around himself. He keeps one hand wrapped around his waist but uses the other to gesture over Vergil’s person, lingering particularly at the shirt. “I don’t recall you ever owning one of these.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vergil picks his mug back up and looks away, staring at a wall and hiding behind the rim of his coffee. His determination to not face V — to not face the truth — is telling, and V takes that as a small victory. That henley </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> look a little stretched out, and maybe if he squints a little, there might be a grease stain hiding somewhere. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V coaxes him out of his “hiding spot” by wrapping both his hands around Vergil’s mug, fingers nudging his hold away. Vergil relents easily enough, only because V hasn’t egged him on even if the truth of it still lingers between them, and V takes a moment to savor the warmth of the fresh coffee against his palms. It smells decadent, the aroma bringing with it a certain nostalgia, almost delicious enough for him to believe it to be. In the back of his mind, he knows it’ll only taste like bitter smoke and burnt earth, but he gives in to temptation and false hope and takes just the smallest sip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It tastes disgusting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grimaces at his own dark reflection upon the black sludge — no cream, no sugar, just hot water and roasted coffee beans. Just as he expected and knew it to be. If only the flavor matched its aroma, he wouldn’t mind the intensity. V thinks coffee as literal bitter disappointment, always enticing him with its fragrant tones but falling like ash on his tongue. Another thing to separate himself from Vergil, he supposes, who’s been drinking at least two cups these past mornings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I still don’t understand how our palates differ so,” V wonders, quietly, mostly to himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In the same way our appearances differ.” Vergil takes his coffee back now that V’s had his satisfaction — or lack thereof — and drinks almost a third of it down. It’s not really an answer, just another question stacked into the mystery that is V, because neither of them actually understand the why behind the form that Vergil’s humanity had taken. And even then, V’s become less of a half and more of a whole after it all. “You are you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If V was feeling philosophical he would have argued something, but the inquisitive part of his brain’s still sleeping upstairs with Dante. He also rather likes the fuzzy feeling in his chest born from Vergil’s simple words, and he’d prefer to not ruin it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning, by the way.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Vergil steering their train of thought away from the topic must mean he’s not in the mood for a debate either. He looks expectedly at V, like he’s expecting the morning newspaper to be handed over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But V knows it’s not the daily mail he wants. Lips curling, soft and knowing, he leans in and presses a kiss to Vergil’s own, eyes fluttering closed at the delicate reply back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coffee still doesn’t agree with him, but he finds it quite sweet on Vergil’s lips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had managed to goad Vergil out into town, baiting him with the promise of his favored coffee shop and a bookstore visit. It was a date, all things considered he supposed, though he had mostly just wanted to get Vergil some social interaction — even if that only meant cursory greetings and a short order of belgian chocolate cake and a café au lait — and a pleasant one at that. And as most occasions whenever a Sparda’s involved, it ended with an  impromptu demon hunt at the end. V took the time to lean against a wall and read through the first chapter of his newly purchased novella while Vergil dismembered some Scarecrows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And here I thought you guys left me to go party,” Dante greets when they eventually return home, the sun dipping into the early hours of evening. As usual, he’s lounging back on his old faithful chair, its hind legs tipping dangerously far as Dante has his feet kicked up onto his desk, ankles crossed over the other. Beside his boots, a bottle of dark whiskey and two filled glasses, the only things that seem to be clean on his desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dante nurses his own drink, saluting V and Vergil with it when they cross the threshold. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d like to believe you’ve made better use of your time on something other than drinking,” Vergil says, even if he takes one of the glasses for himself. He trades it for a small to-go box, a mini strawberry shortcake from the same coffee shop he had his own dessert from. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Happy birthday then,” Dante replies with a flair of dramatics. “Did a quick job for Morrison a few hours ago actually.” He downs the rest of his drink and slides his feet off the desk, leaning forward to reach for the box Vergil slid to him. His face lights up when he spots the contents, and he picks off a sliced strawberry to scoop a dollop of sweet cream onto it before popping it into his mouth. “Or happy birthday to me, I guess. Am I missing an anniversary or somethin’?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Consider it good karma for actually working today.” V rounds the desk and pats Dante on the head in an almost condescending manner, though Dante doesn't seem to care, content as he is with his treat and the attention. "I wasn't aware you picked a request up."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Eh, I was bored," he says through a mouthful of cake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V pauses, halfway down to reaching for his own whiskey that Dante had set aside for him, and gives him a skeptical eye. Bored enough to work, he says. That's not something any of them hear often — Vergil included, made apparent by his own cynical look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dante must feel the scrutiny, as he shoves the rest of his cake into his mouth and squares his shoulders in what’s the preamble for a tussle. He’s not drunk. Far from it. But with another very powerful, very proud demon prowling in and sharing his territory, Dante’s always raring for a fight, and he’s always looking for any excuse for a wrestle. Vergil’s no better, honestly, with how much he likes to put little brother in his place and make a show of his prowess. Hardly a day goes by without at least a little spat — verbal or physical.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They always make amends afterwards, no real bad blood in between them anyway, not anymore. Kiss and make up and all. Or fuck and make up. Or kiss </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> make up. Not always necessarily in that order. It just might be a reason for the frequency of their fights. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And while V doesn't particularly mind playing spectator and sometimes referee for their dicking contests, he'd rather prefer to end the night on a peaceful note for once. It was such a good morning and day; a shame to not keep the domestic rhythm going. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V hastily swallows a sip of his whiskey, grimacing at the burn on his tongue and down his throat. He almost coughs at the intensity, never one for liquor and spirits in the first place being as lightweight as he is, and the warmth that chases into his belly is its only pleasant upside. "Dante," he says, barely concealing the rasp in his voice, swiping the back of his hand against his lips. "We're only teasing."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dante looks like he doesn't believe it and rightfully so; it's barely half the truth. It works as a moment’s distraction, however, as Dante slightly relaxes to crane his head and turn his attention from Vergil to V, who saunters on over to just. Plop himself down, draping himself over Dante, chair and all. He doesn’t weigh much, thin as he is despite everyone’s attempts — even Kyrie’s, whenever he visits Nero and his little found family, who’s cooking </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> actually managed to add some meat to his bones, delicious as her skill is — and Dante could easily bench press him, let alone lift him up and off one handedly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But moments like these, when it is V who seeks out attention rather than Dante, are few and far in between, and it is for this reason he keeps it like a secret weapon. He stretches one arm behind Dante’s head, along the back of the chair, half-empty whiskey glass dangling from his hand, and he lifts Dante’s chin with his other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m tired, Dante,” he says, as if that’s all the reason any of them need and it very well damn should be. “I’d like to rest and read my new novella and drink the rest of this god awful whiskey you’re so fond of. You two can have your little romp in the morning, and I’ll even watch you go at it like the beasts in heat that you are — ah, no, no, that goes for you too Vergil.” He waves his whiskey glass in admonishment when Vergil makes the slightest hint of a protest. Not to deny the libido, V’s sure, but to argue against being lumped into the same category as Dante. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no point in denying anything when all three of them know the truth far too well, and they’re far past the point of playing shy and coy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So be good for me, and I’ll read to you in that voice you like.” He drops his voice down an octave, deep and low and smooth like the finer liquors Dante keeps stashed for special occasions. It's one of his prime qualities, they once said, his voice that can sound like warm fertile earth or intoxicating smoke that smolders and burns. He could make an encyclopedia on fungi sound like a whimsical bedtime story or turn a cookbook into a dollar store erotica. A strange gift, V thinks, but an effective one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gift that works to appease, judging by Dante’s response. He dips his head down, low and graceful, and kisses away whatever lingering doubts Dante might have, sharing the notes of spice and smoke of their whiskey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It still tastes awful. But the little sigh he catches from Dante's mouth is more than enough to make up for the bitter burn in his throat. Still, he breaks away even as Dante gives chase, as tempting as it is to let himself be captured.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Come along, brother dearests, so that I may put you two to bed,” V says, in a tone almost melodic, and gives his still full glass to Dante. He swings his legs over, back onto his feet, and heads up the stairs with nary a glance back. They’ll follow him, as they always do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a faint shuffle of shoes and glass and the unmistakable murmur of “Last one there’s a rotten Qliphoth fruit” followed by “Foolishness.” V rolls his eyes at that. Always finding some excuse to banter, those two. Then again, it wouldn’t be a normal day without it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’ll read to them tonight, as promised, and maybe fall asleep sandwiched between them. He’ll wake in the morning to Dante sprawled all over him, greet Vergil in the kitchen and kiss the coffee from his mouth. Perhaps he’ll go into town again or maybe even visit Nero and brick back a souvenir bottle of wine to sip on that night instead of Dante’s cheap liquors. Or if V’s feeling magnanimous, splurge on some quality scotch or pick up Dante’s favorite tequila. Though he wouldn’t disagree with watching them go through the motions of another brotherly spat, whether or not it’ll lead to letting off steam in a game of swordsmanship or in a tussle in bed or a combination of both. Any would be fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>V has all the time in the world to simply enjoy, after all.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aight, time to skedaddle for some october fics byeeee</p></blockquote></div></div>
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